


The Wiles of the Enemy

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 08:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3762059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two great minds have a battle via the Palantír.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wiles of the Enemy

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

I stopped in front of the door to the Chamber and leaned against the wall, trying to catch my breath. In my eagerness to reach the top of the stairs I had perhaps displayed rather more haste than would befit a great lord, and now I had to linger here for a few minutes, regaining my composure and straightening the robes. (Even we of Númenorean blood deem the ascent to the top of the Tower of Ecthelion tiresome, and for lesser folks it is an unbearable task. Indeed, not only my foresight warns me when intrusive servants are going to disrupt my reverie in the Tower, but also their breathless cursing about a halfway up.)

Hoping that my face was now suitably stern, and my posture erect, I slowly pushed the heavy door open. My earlier eagerness gave way to a great reluctance. I wished to look at the Stone tonight, for strange news of some trouble in Rohan had just reached me, but I feared the Enemy would be waiting for me, as it is his wont nowadays.

In honesty, I do not always mind meeting my Enemy face to face, for it refreshes the weary mind. Ruling the realm by a masterful hand becomes a drudgery at times, and I find myself longing for a proper challenge. The Enemy as good as admits feeling the same. He is apt to remark that trying to convince me of the impending Doom of the West is far jollier than listening to Orc captains squabbling at endless Barad-Dûr councils.

Tonight, however, I did not wish for His interference. Unluckily, this almost ascertained Him fancying a look into His Stone at this very time, for such are His ways. But fight we must, for better or for worse. Casting off the reluctance, I quickly walked to the center of the Chamber, where the black Palantír rested on a round stone table, wrought perhaps by Dwarves, judging by the misspellings of carven inscriptions. Willing my hands not to tremble, I took the Stone and gazed inside.

As ever, the Palantír was cold and strangely heavy, and holding it I felt both glad and repulsed. At first I saw naught in its black depths, but then, bending my will to Théoden’s land, I found myself looking at broad meadows and golden hills. I cast my eyes here and yon, searching for signs of evil, when suddenly the view was blocked by a single Flaming Eyeball, staring at me with a malicious expression. I haughtily looked back, doing my best to suppress irritation. This by the Valar, is not easy when I feel so thwarted! (I must watch my thoughts carefully, lest I betray my designs or my mood to the Enemy through the Stone. Forever he hopes to catch me unguarded. I know that for I, too, can feel His black thoughts inside my head).

The Eyeball was still glaring at me. At least this time I did not hear in my mind any screeches “Doom! Doom!”, as it usually happened on such occasions. The Enemy must have been too curious about my purpose to taunt me properly. I coldly smiled at Him and tore my gaze off the Palantír. (Resisting its pull is hard even for me, especially when the Enemy is at the other end, but I always succeed in breaking the connection, for I am used to crossing wills with Him.) While my heartbeat was slowing down to normal, I considered whether another attempt would bring me the desired control of the Stone.

I must have gotten weary, for even straining my will to the utmost, I could not behold the fair land of Rohan this time. Instead I got a distinct feeling of being preyed upon. Suddenly I saw a womanly form, at first blurry, as if veiled in mist. The vision approached and grew clear in my eyes. I barely managed to restrain myself from blinking. Ye gods, but she was scantily clad. “Denethor”, I heard her words in my mind, “You have a beautiful voice. Talk to me, Denethor”. I frowned, for I had said naught to her. In fact, I had been rendered speechless.

Was the Enemy, perhaps, trying to wile me from my task with her charms? If so, He had better try again. Lore says there had been a time when He had been handsome Himself and had known what beauty was, but millennia spent among hideous Orcs must have skewed His aesthetic perceptions. For any possible allure of the creature in front of my eyes was dampened by a dark-green colour and a certain bumpiness of her countenance. Little horns protruded from her hair, which was arranged like a helmet and decorated with spiders, and when she smiled, with a shudder I noticed little black fangs.

In good time I remembered to pierce the hell maiden with a stern and forbidding stare. I hoped this alone might be enough to scare her away, for it is said that many fly in terror at the sight of my grimness. It worked well enough. The echo of a small squeak, issued by the fell thing upon her disappearance, lingered in my mind awhile. Presently I had a brief vision of the Flaming Eyeball, looking disappointed. This time interrupting the connection did not require any effort, I noted with satisfaction.

Yet again I peered into the dark depths of the Stone. I had to see what those new woes of Théoden were. Perhaps the Enemy would not bother me again tonight.

Alas, I hoped thus in vain, for having turned my will to Rohan, I suddenly felt pulled away by the force of His will and His wrath. He was trying to turn my mind towards the horrors of His Black Land. Determined not let Him prevail upon me, I bent my will again to the horsemen’s realm. He drew my resisting mind back to Mordor. I broke through back to the horses. He dragged me back to the East. Despairing, I threw all my will into the last effort to break away... felt His grip on my mind weakening… and found myself looking upon a place, entirely different from both my and His intended destinations.

This had to be the top of the Tower of Orthanc. I had not recognized it right away because of the scenery around the Tower, which had changed since I last saw it. The Wizard Curunír must have gone ahead with his power plans, for the valley was stripped of its greenery, full of some unspeakably ugly buildings and squirming with Orcs. Horrifying, yes. Yet I deem the scene I beheld on the top of the tower even more disturbing than the sight below. The Wizard Curunír, beard askew and robes in dissarray, was sitting in an appallingly warm embrace with a small slimy man, in whom I was amazed to recognize Théoden’s counselor Gríma. They were both waving long clay pipes and singing what seemed to be a drinking song. Gríma’s eyes were unfocused under their heavy eyelids. A hefty Orc captain, standing guard nearby, was looking at them with disgust. Suddenly Curunír half-rose from his seat and presented Gríma with a slobbery kiss. The other giggled, sending spittle in all directions. The Orc rolled up his eyes.

I shook my head at the Wizard’s folly, my mental tie to Orthanc broke, and I found myself looking straight at the familiar Eyeball, now wearing a decidedly embarrassed expression.  
\--“Have you seen what I have just seen?” inquired a somewhat perplexed fell voice inside my mind.  
\--“Wish I had not,” I answered not altogether untruthfully.  
\--“It must be the pipeweed”, he offered. “Saruman has been boasting about this new powerful stuff from the North”.

We separated almost amiably. I slowly raised my aching eyes to see the dawn colouring the sky over Pelennor. All in all, this night’s adventure had not been in vain. I did not allow the Enemy to have the upper hand, and besides, now I knew what trouble was afoot in Rohan. I greeted the new day with a wan smile and carefully put the Palantír back on the table. A few dwarven runes, carved on the table surface, caught my attention. Turning to leave the chamber, I pondered their translation: SEIZING STONE.

The End

_My heartfelt thanks to Cressida, Astara and Trevelyan for beta-reading._


End file.
